


Gonna Walk The Mojave

by soupmetaphors



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, F/F, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-05-13 22:16:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5719033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soupmetaphors/pseuds/soupmetaphors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bits and pieces of Courier Six's trek across the Mojave- and then some.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"You sick, vindictive fuck!"

His words rang in her ears as she watched them drag him from the tent. But that was alright- An eye for an eye and all that shit.

The Courier followed after a moment. She was quite aware of Caesar's gaze on her, impressed, perhaps, at her ruthlessness. _Ruthlessness_. That was a word she could get used to.

She lagged several steps behind the Legionaries, watching them manhandle Benny. God forbid she give him a _third_ chance and help him escape. No, it was too late for that. She'd already known his fate the moment she'd woken up with empty arms.

 _Sentimentality_. That was _definitely_ be her downfall. Striding into the Tops with a mind to kill, only to stagger out quite disorientated and cheated. And, naturally, upset. _Should have slit his throat_. Easy, quick, and straight-forward. A switchblade was _always_ the quickest option. Yet she chose to _sleep_. To shut her eyes, pull Benny close, and pretend it could work out.

They'd passed through the camp already: The Courier didn't even _realize_ , legs on automatic. Eyes flicked to the entourage ahead. Still walking. Still with the dark horse of Vegas among them.

Soon, she'd be rid of him. Forever.

 _How did being shot in the head feel?_ the doctor back in Goodsprings had questioned.

 _Like falling in love_ , she would have replied.

 _Fucking painful_ , were her actual words. _Very fucking painful._

The Legionaries were readying Benny. She kept missing the transitions of their journey, from the tent to the front of the Fort. The Courier leaned against one of the crucifixion posts, ignoring the skeleton hanging off it.

So far, not a _word_ out of Benny. Not yet, anyways.

"Good sex doesn't make up for a bullet to the head," she said, as they tightened his bonds.

_Nothing does._

"Jupiter, come on," he whined. "Don't do this to me."

The urge to throw sand into his face came and went. Instead, she smiled, doing nothing as the Legionaries moved in.

Benny barely struggled, being hoisted up like a sacrificial lamb. His gaze was fixed on her- Angry, sick, a touch of confused. The Courier stared back, unwilling to be the first to look away.

Eventually, he turned his head away. Some games couldn't be played in certain situations.

The rest of the process took almost no time at all: Pouring the pitch over Benny, Maria being handed to the Courier, her line of sight flicking from the downwards pull of his mouth to the blinding checkers of his jacket.

In the end, Caesar's dogs walked off, leaving her alone with him. No fire. Perhaps they'd do it after he suffered a little more: The Legion seemed to be full of sadists and sickos.

And she probably fit right in.

The Courier dipped her hand into her pocket, pulling out a lighter. _His_ lighter, to be specific. Whistled so that Benny craned his neck in her direction.

Smiled when they made eye contact. "You promised me a date."

"This counts as one, pussycat."

"Guess it does. Pity it's in a dump like this- I had a cute dress to show you.

 _And pity you'll never see it_. Or see anything again, for that matter. 

He made a noise, a cross between a sigh and a laugh. "So this is my curtain call, huh? At _your_ hands."

"Don't worry your pretty head, handsome- I've got it covered."

Vegas, she meant. Telling House to fuck right off. Making Vegas _free_. After all, Benny wasn't the only wild card in this fucked-up game.

Silence, falling between them.

What _else_ could be said? Nothing, really. 

"Goodbye, Benny," the Courier said, finally.

He didn't reply. Eyes widened as she extended her hand, the one holding his lighter. And then he screamed.

Which was only natural, considering she had set him on fire.

Benny struggled, screamed, twisted in his bonds until his flesh ripped and got eaten up by the flames. All while the Courier watched. She said nothing, breathing in the scent of cooking meat, drinking in the agony.

 _An eye for an eye_ , she thought, when enough time had passed that he had grown still.

Leaning back against the vacant crucifix, she let her gaze drift upwards, to the wisps of smoke rising to the night sky.

 _An eye for an eye_.


	2. Chapter 2

Her words echo terrifyingly in his memory: _When I die, bury me up in Goodsprings, in the only grave I got waiting._

Facing New Vegas, facing what is supposed to be their ultimate destination. Only he isn’t so sure they’re going to reach the Strip any time soon- Especially not with her bleeding out all over him.

“Come on, boss, we’re almost there.”

Almost to his shack, to the only place he- and by extension, _she_ \- can call home. Almost to the safe darkness, the four walls that trap them in comfort.

In his arms, the Courier struggles, feebly. He knows how she feels: Angry for being weak, delirious, perhaps _afraid_. He hasn’t seen her afraid before. (The very notion itself scares the daylight out of him).

“Did… Did we do it?” she asks, voice barely rising above a whisper.

For a moment he doesn’t understand. It clicks, a fraction of a second later.

“Uh, well, boss, we strode into a nest of Deathclaws. How do you _think_ it went?” he answers.

It’s good to hear her laugh. Less so when she wheezes while drawing breath. Raul’s careful not to let her see him frown. Instead, looks straight ahead, watching for wasteland critters and bandits waiting to pounce.

_Bury me in the only grave I got waiting._

They’ve been chasing the asshole in the checkered suit for two weeks now. It can’t end this way. He wants to see her get her revenge. He wants to see her happy.

(She’s _mostly_ happy, but there _are_ points of void: Staring into the distance, not responding to him, fingers absently touching the nasty scar on her forehead.)

Up ahead, he can see the rusted door of his shack- Glinting in the harsh, evening sun, it beckons to him.

Increase in pace, ignoring the hissing of radscorpions that are pretty close by. Nothing matters at this moment- Nothing except stopping that blood flow. After all, how long can one already-drenched tourniquet hold out?

Not for much longer.

When Raul finally manages to get up to the shack, he fumbles with the latch for a moment before pushing the door open with his shoulder. It swings shut behind him, casting everything back into darkness.

And that’s okay. It’s a good dark. Promises a better tomorrow or at least a good night’s sleep.

The Courier has stopped trying to get up. In fact, it seems like she’s stopped trying to do anything at _all_. Which is starting to make him panic.

“Alright, boss, I’m going to put you down. My arms feel like they’re going to snap off…”

Gently lowers her onto the mattress, hearing glass crunch under his feet: Remnants of their last time here. Turns on her Pip-Boy light, the glow lighting up the room, and nods to himself.

He can do this. He _must_ do this- He owes her this much.

* * *

 

She wakes with hazy memories of charging Deathclaws and a long, starless trek across the desert. Hands scrabble for her gun, but stop when she finds bandages wrapped around her.

_Aha._

She knows this place. The stench of stale whiskey, the darkness that her eyes slowly adjust to, all familiar, and the sound of hammer against metal over and over again.

Searches for the source, finds Raul hunched over his workbench. He doesn’t seem to have noticed her. His hands are moving mechanically, breaking down parts to scrap metal. Maybe his blows are a little too hard. Maybe she can hear how much force there is.

“Thanks for saving my ass back there.”

Her voice cracks at the end of her sentence, and she’s already feeling for her canteen.

The mechanic pauses. “All in a day’s work.”

“Did I say anything I might regret?”

He puts down his hammer, looks straight at her. The Courier holds his gaze. She’s becoming particularly _good_ at staring contests, thanks to seedy drinking holes and all manner of encounters.

“Oh, just how much you appreciated me bringing you back from the dead.”

Finding her canteen, she takes several gulps, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. Raul’s already dropped his gaze, which is quite unsettling. He’s always played these games with her. To have an abrupt switch in rituals is strange. _Frightening_ , although she’ll never admit it.

She’s Courier Six, and there isn’t anything she can’t do or is afraid of.

(Barring the fact she can’t remember much of her life _before_ the grave and can’t think of one _after_ revenge.)

“I said something wrong, didn’t I?” she pokes.

“Boss, you always say the wrong things.” There, that dry sarcasm she’s familiar with. “That’s why we get into trouble all the time.”

She snickers, shakes her head. “Whatever you say, old man.”

“And you better lie down too before your stitches come undone.”

The Courier bites back a snarky remark, lies back down. Thinks about scanning her Pip-Boy for the next potential adventure, before pushing it aside.

That can wait. For now, she needs to plan how she can get those damn Deathclaws once and for all.

* * *

 

He sneaks a glance at her, still at the workbench.

Wants to remind her about those words, a week into their newfound friendship, drunk on adrenaline and liquor. Instead, Raul holds his tongue. It isn’t good to speak of these things aloud.

 _When I die_ , she’d said, grabbing the front of his shirt, staring with those wild eyes. _Bury me up in Goodsprings._

That grave can wait, he thinks, picking his hammer back up. It’s got to wait for a long, long time if the Courier’s got him by her side.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what I was trying to achieve here, but this isn't the last of Joshua's interactions with Jupiter in this series.

The painted face glares at her from the surface of the rock: Bleeding red eyes, bandages that wrap around and around, rain drops creating tear streaks down the line.

“Who _is_ that?” she asks, although she already knows the answer.

“That is Joshua.” Follows-Chalk stops beside her to look up at the mural.

For a moment, all those whispers in the Fort come rushing at her: _The Burned Man walks and his wrath is vengeful and terrible._

Swallows, draws her gaze from the mural. There are worst things to fear, she knows. _And he is only a man._

“Let’s go,” the Courier tells the scout. “I want to see if the legends match up to the truth.”

* * *

 

She offers him her hand, careful not to stare for too long. She is a legend in her own right and he must know that she won’t be intimidated. (Far too many people have made that mistake.)

“You aren’t the courier I expected,” the Burned Man tells her. His handshake is crisp and firm.

“I’m not what _anyone_ expects.”

She can’t tell if he’s smiling or frowning underneath his bandages.

* * *

 

She counts his guns while he’s asleep. He’s always cleaning them, loading them up with ammunition. If someone is to ask how many there are, she might say enough to kill. Enough to turn the clear rivers red.

And that’s rather assuring: When push comes to shove, they’ll be able to shove harder.

The Courier believes that if you don’t shove harder, you’ll end up with too many bullet holes between your shoulders.

* * *

 

Her hand lands on his shoulder and he jerks so hard that she pulls back, nearly falls in her haste.

“I’m sorry,” he says, as she steadies herself. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She’s supposed to be saying that, really. But he’s already taken her lines, and now she’s left standing there with nothing to say.

“I shouldn’t bother you,” is the best she comes up with.

It’s more for his benefit than hers.

* * *

 

“Enough?”

He rises from the table the same time she and Follows-Chalk walk in, drenched from their latest supply run.

“Excuse me, Courier?”

“Enough?” she repeats, gesturing to the guns on the table.

If there’s enough, that means things are going to be okay. She wants things to be okay, because Zion is beautiful and she would hate to see it go to waste.

The man holds her gaze for a moment. She doesn’t look away.

“Enough,” is the eventual answer.

Her laughter fills the cave, a little crazed, a little pleased.

* * *

 

She’s wrestling with a Dead Horse warrior, right by the river. He’s thrown three of his opponents in; she’s determined not to be the fourth.

The other tribals are watching, wondering if the owslandr can win. They know her strength, how she’s killed the White Legs who dare cross her path. They know her for what she truly is.

The Courier grapples with the warrior, struggling to push him into the cold water.

“Come on, owslandr,” he jokes through gritted teeth. “Show me how you battle.”

She takes a step back, intent on causing him to lose his balance. He falls forward, and she’s almost out of range when he grabs her by the legs.

They both fall into the water.

For a moment, she’s scrabbling in the dirt, trying to untangle herself from the warrior. The next, she’s on her feet, grinning in triumph.

“Did I win?” she asks, as the Dead Horse warrior emerges from the water a few feet away.

He spits a mouthful of water at her, playfully. “Hard to say.”

As she climbs out onto the bank, she notices Joshua standing there. Arms folded, watching her.

“Having fun, Courier?” he asks. Despite how quiet his voice is, it carries to her.

“It’s Jupiter!”

She shouts it out, seating herself in front of the campfire to dry out. Her fingers comb through her hair, flicking water everywhere.

“Excuse me?”

“Jupiter- my name. Courier’s just a title.”

“Courier,” he repeats, and she can hear his smile.

* * *

 

They’re ambushed by the White Legs while on the road.

It interrupts the conversation they were having, about something to do with gecko steak and fresh bandages. (Not that these have anything in _common_.)

Her hands reach for her machete, already running towards their attackers: Three, and from what she can tell, a storm-drummer and two pain-makers.

The Courier works fast. Months in the Mojave have made up for a lifetime of forgotten memories.

_Swing, duck, swing, dodge, step back, swing._

Eventually, the pain-makers are dead, and she turns to deal with the storm-drummer.

But Joshua’s already gotten to him.

The ex- Legate is yelling in Latin, things even she can’t understand, for all the time spent hanging around the Legion.

His hands wrap around the storm-drummer’s throat, using his full weight to pin him to the ground. Fingers gouge into weathered skin. Harder. _Harder._

She watches, out of curiosity. Doesn’t step in to intervene, doesn’t behead the tribal out of mercy.

The Courier wants to see what the Burned Man is capable of.

(Wants to know that, if she _ever_ needs to take him down, she can. It’s a matter of strength, she tells herself, not a matter of emotion.)

Before she knows it, the White Legs stops struggling.

Joshua leans back, still straddling the body. Tilts his head to the sky.

Only now does she approach him, wiping her face with a hand. The same hand she uses to touch his shoulder.

“Let’s go back,” she suggests, quietly.

_I can kill you if I want. Right here, right now._

Extinguish the Burned Man’s legend, cut down the White Legs herself, cut _everyone_ down.

She can. It’s just a matter of emotion.

_Once a courier came into Zion and let the rivers run red, red, red._

“Joshua. Come on.”

_Once they threw Caesar’s loyal dog down into a canyon, and his screams echoed for days._

Her hand slips from his shoulder, leaving a bloodied print. She stares at it as if she can’t quite comprehend. Her thoughts are smashing together.

 _Must be the Mentats_ , she thinks, as he cranes his neck to look at her.

She holds out a stained hand. “Any longer standing here, you’ll have to carry me back.”

It’s a relief when he takes it, lets her help him up.

It’s even _more_ of a relief when he lets her hold him, all the way back to the cave.


	4. Chapter 4

The Mentats crunch under her teeth. She adjusts the scope of her rifle, thinking that this last mouthful will have to keep her running until she can resupply. 

Across the plain, the wasteland is silent. 

Not a brahmin lows nor a wild dog howls. It is peaceful, but it won’t last. It never does. 

The mouth of the dinosaur is a good spot to keep watch, she has to admit. This is- after all- what Boone sees, day in, day out. Waiting for enemies that will never come.

The door behind her opens. “What are you doing here?” 

Ah. She may or may not have forgotten to tell him about her taking over his shift.

“It’s just for tonight,” the Courier says, without turning around. “Go to sleep, get a drink, _something_.”

“Thought you would have reached the Strip by now. Where’s your friend?”

“Raul’s sleeping. We keep getting distracted by shiny things, so getting there _might_ take some time.” 

She wants him to leave. To get the hell out of the dinosaur and let her sit in silence until morning. To be alone, to think of this as penance, she doesn’t know. 

“Someone went up to the Mojave Outpost and shot some of the rangers,” Boone tells her. 

Grip tightens on her rifle. She tries to keep her tone light.

“Really?” 

She likes Boone. He has her back, he’s quiet, he doesn’t take shit from anyone. But he’s NCR all the way and she, well, thinks quite the opposite.

The Legion has strategies, a proper army, goals that they actually strive for. Aside from the fact that they’re murderers, sadists, and all that, it’s a pretty good camp to fall into. They get shit done. The NCR doesn’t.

To her, it’s that simple. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

He’s beside her now, staring out onto the horizon. Her teeth grit, grind the remainders of the Mentats into powder.

_Go away_ , she pleads silently. _Go the fuck away_.

In the morning, she’ll take Raul and vanish back into the Mojave. She’d like to lie and say that she’s only doing this because she’ll never see Boone again. But she will. She’ll call him when she needs him.

And- the worst part- _he’ll come_.

They stand in silence for a while. It doesn’t seem like the sniper will leave her, so she figures she has to stick it out. 

_Just for a few hours._

She can’t tell him. The Courier understands it’s futile to hide it, that he’ll find out. Yet as long as he doesn’t find out while she’s in town, it’s dandy. 

“Would you kill them?”

The words come, unbidden, to her lips, out into the air. 

“Kill who?”

“Whoever killed the rangers. Would you kill them?”

“Of course. The Legion deserves to be torn apart. Soldier by soldier.”

It’s a wonder she hasn’t broken her fingers from holding the gun this tight. Her grip slackens before she can hurt herself. She dares to flick a glance his way.

“What if they weren’t Legion?” she asks.

“Then why would they kill NCR troops?”

“Not _everyone_ is fond of them, Legion or no. The world isn’t two armies, Boone.”

Not _her_ world, anyways. Those two factions are a side-problem. Her real show-down is with a man in a loud suit and a smug smirk. 

_And then what?_

A mercenary’s life, maybe. A life in a dark shack with a ghoul mechanic, listening to the radio long after the sun has gone down, Sunset Sarsaparilla until her teeth rot. Something _new_ , because there’ll be nothing left if she doesn’t _find_ something.

His answer brings her back down. She’ll never make a good sniper if distracted so easily.

“I’d have to think about it,” Boone says.

She doesn’t reply immediately. Bringing the rifle up, the Courier scans the surroundings through the scope. Nothing. Just another humid night in Novac, it seems. 

Letting the rifle drop back down, she exhales. “Boone?”

“Yes?”

_I shot them._

_I rather run with Caesar’s lot than your precious NCR._

_I don’t care who wins the war._

_I don’t want you to hate me._

Dipping her hand into her pockets, she pulls out a handful of caps and passes them to him.

“Be a good man and buy me some Mentats, will you?” 

He shakes his head, mutters something about addiction, but leaves her alone all the same.

At least she’s bought herself some time alone. 

_I'd rather run with Caesar._

And she’s not sure what she’ll do when Boone gets wind of it.

But for now, everything is fine. 

Raul is sleeping, Boone is going to get her fix, the Geiger counter on her Pip-Boy tells her that she _isn’t_ slowly dying of radiation poisoning. 

Everything is fine. 


	5. Chapter 5

_“You’ve got an angel on your shoulder, kid.”_

She hears this often, traversing from one end of the Mojave to the other. And she can’t deny it, really.

It happens: Enemies drop dead before she can get a clear shot, leaving her rather confused and with the dim image of a trench coat flapping in what little wind there is.

The Courier isn’t stupid. Can’t be, in a land like this, when her title bears more weight than any baggage she hauls around with her.

At first, it seems good enough, especially when she walks alone. An extra hand, a couple of bullets she doesn’t have to waste. But where it’s coming from worries her a little.

Taking out the others just to take _her_ out?

Likely as not. Stranger things have happened.

_“You’re lucky.”_

Alright, sure. Yet luck is one thing and help another.

It’s been happening since she’d woken up in Goodsprings. Every week or so. She counts. Puts the number somewhere in her Pip-Boy, keeps adding it up.

She sees him, one day.

Stands still until she can see the chipped teeth of the raider, feel the air from the swing of the pool cue.

The shot rings out as she spins around, knowing fully well her assailant is dead.

Not a soul there. Just the abandoned gas stop, all boarded up.

“I know you’re there,” she says, loudly. “Would you just let me see you?”

Silence. Dead raiders around her feet. The only movement coming from her own, fidgety hands.

“I mean, you can’t keep this up _forever_. And you can’t think I don’t notice.”

The Courier gives it a second or two. When no one comes out, she turns her back and continues on her way. No point waiting for things that will never come.

* * *

 

She keeps pushing.

Keeps standing, watching as those who wish her dead charge.

Sometimes- _most times_ \- she has to deal with them herself.

Sometimes he comes. Fires the killing shot right before her face gets smashed to shit.

She turns when he does it, hoping to catch a glimpse of his face, a glint of eyes, _anything_. All she gets is that trench coat and the click of a gun.

Help is great. Help is _always_ great.

Help when you don’t know where it’s coming from _isn’t_.

She waits up late into the night, hoping he’ll slink closer to her fire.

“I’m not going to kill you unless you want to kill me,” she calls out to the darkness.

She calls a great many things out. The Courier figures he can hear her- he just doesn’t want to see her. Or let her see him. Whichever seems to be his fancy.

Sometimes she lets it slide. Allows him to do his thing and doesn’t question. Pretends it’s totally fine.

Mostly she gives him two seconds to come face-to-face with her before stalking off to her latest adventure.

Let’s be reasonable. She’s a busy woman. There are people to kill, places to go, tech to get her grubby hands on.

So she starts leaving things out for him: Ammo, tins of InstaMash, the occasional scrap metal to fix his gun. They disappear while she pretends to sleep, back towards the fire.

She can hear his footsteps when she strains.

Doesn’t move, keeps her breathing regular. She wants him with his guard down, wants him right where she can see.

A week of this turns into two turns into three.

 _Enough_ , she thinks, as she lays out a bottle of water and a little ammo. It’s tonight or never.

Throwing her pack down, the Courier lies with her head resting upon it, back to the open, waiting.

It doesn’t take long for the bandits to sniff her out. She hears their voices from a good mile away. Stills herself, keeps her breathing even, one hand around Maria just in case.

Things go wrong at the worst of moments.

“Shall we kill her?” someone hisses. “Or wake her up _then_ kill her?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” says another voice. A thump, a yelp. The footsteps are awfully close.

The sound of weapons being loaded, murmurs that don’t spell a good end for her.

And then gunfire. She bolts upright to see him methodically shooting the bandits one by one.

When he’s quite finished, she shoots him in the leg.

He goes down with barely a sound, and the Courier is already standing over him when he looks up.

“I had to flag you down _somehow_ ,” she tells him. Notes the growing bloodstains on his trouser leg.

He looks up at her. A grimace on his face, but no words for her to hear. No words, despite a full minute of them there, staring at each other.

Putting Maria away, she kneels. Fumbles with her pack. Brings out gauze, her canteen. Keeps her eyes on him just in case he tries to vanish on her again.

“I’m going to fix you up. And you’re going to tell me why you’ve been on my tail since Goodsprings.”

* * *

 

Of course, things don’t work out the way she expects.

He says nothing. She _still_ finishes cleaning and bandaging the wound.

“You can’t talk, can you?” she asks, sitting back on her haunches. “Or you just don’t want to.”

The man blinks.

“Hope you like the stuff I left out for you.”

He nods, and she looks away.

“Thanks for saving my ass, I suppose. It’s han-“

When she looks back at him, he’s already gone.

A smile, breaking over her face, amused, perplexed. The Courier lets the matter drop, picks herself up.

Before she leaves, she scrubs out his bloodstains with her boot. She owes him that much, she guesses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is wondering, it's about the Courier and the Mysterious Stranger.


	6. Chapter 6

She’s twelve when her sister is gone.

Taken by raiders or chose to join them, the choice is unclear.

But the evidence of her flight stares the girl straight in the face: Scraps of fabric caught on barbed wire, fluttering in the night breeze.

The girl stands there, heedless of danger. She’s wondering how she’ll explain this to her parents in the gentlest way possible, what she’ll do know she’s the eldest.

Goes back inside after a while. No use crying over spilt Nuka Cola, what her mother always says.

(But it _hurts_. Being abandoned by someone who was supposed to stay forever, who was supposed to protect you.)

Her brother stirs when she comes into the room the three ( _two_ , she thinks, dully) of them share.

He asks her what the matter is and she tells him to go back to sleep.

She stays up long after, strengthening her shoulders for the burden that will come with morning’s light.

* * *

 

She’s sixteen when her brother dies.

They’re climbing the crumbling buildings that almost touch the sky. Her father’s rifle is slung over her back, as she watches her brother scamper up and down the twisting spires.

The evening sun makes the metal glint. Hurts her eyes, although she can’t look away: He’s _her_ responsibility.

So when she sees his leg slip, hears him scream for her, her heart stops.

Throws herself from the safe interior towards the huge gaping hole in the wall. Stomach hits the beam, millions of miles in the air below her, but he’s already gone.

Screams his name so loud she reckons the whole damn Boneyard can hear her.

She has no idea how long she hangs there, a U-shape draped over the beam. Doesn’t want to look down, see her brother. But she’s got to move. Got to get home before it gets dark.

It’s a miracle, how she gets all the way down to where he lies. Blood on the dusty road, head cracked, glassy-eyed.

She carries him home with the help of a passing trader.

Her mother cries. Her father stares at his hands.

She doesn’t know if there’s a funeral, really. At the crack of dawn, she finds the trader and tells him that she’ll guard his caravan if he takes her away, away, _away_.

Her father’s rifle in her hands, she walks away from the only home she’s ever known.

* * *

 

She’s eighteen when she reaches New Reno.

Over two years, she’s been all over: Shady Sands, Vault City, Circle Junction, Fort Abandon, the brahmin drives up at Big Circle, anywhere there’s work to be done.

Earns caps, earns battlescars, earns a reputation as the girl with the quick hands and sharp tongue.

She doesn’t have her father’s rifle anymore, but that’s fine. She’s never had an eye for aiming anyways.

Picks up a machete, learns how to swing it better than any bat.

Soon she’s guarding places like the Shark Club, keeping her mouth shut and ears open for the first yell of trouble. It doesn’t pay much, but it _pays_. That’s all that matters.

* * *

 

She’s twenty when she agrees to deliver a package to a place she’s passed through before during her caravan guard days. She _likes_ it there. Tells anyone who'll listen to go there, and even people _do_ come. Trickles, then streams.

It’s a strange package they give her, covered with symbols from the old world. She doesn’t question _why_ she’s carrying this package. All that matters is getting paid and going to wherever her feet carry her.

(She’s thinking of New Vegas next, the bitter rivals of New Reno, the newest reformed city. Perhaps it’ll yield better things for her.)

She’s halfway back to New Reno when she hears of the damage her package has done.

It frightens her. Of course it does. Just think about it: A drifter barely out of her teens wrecking an entire area, trapping two armies within, _ensuring the death of hundreds of people_. And for what? A handful of caps?

Her actions knock the thought of New Vegas clean out of her skull.

She goes back to her job at the Shark Club, pretends she can sleep at night. Talks to no one about what happened in the Divide.

Wakes up sweating from all the nightmares about missiles going off, children crying, and her being in the middle of the whole mess.

* * *

 

She’s twenty-two when she has the balls to go to New Vegas.

The nightmares have receded, leaving her with foggy dreams that have a lessening effect. Which is good. She can’t keep having sleepless nights forever.

Goes to the Mojave Express, tells them she wants a job, wants it now. A weathered old man called Nash puts her name down: The sixth courier out of seven, delivering packages to a place called the Strip.

( _The Strip_. Even the goddamn _name_ excites her.)

She’s twenty-two when the package leads to her being left to die in a shallow grave, two bullets to the brain.

She’s twenty-two when her memories turn into fractures and dust.

She’s twenty-two when people begin calling her Courier Six instead of her name.

She’s twenty-two when she unknowingly starts her own legend. A legend that’ll grow brighter and brighter, like the star she’s named after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little backstory behind Jupiter! Honestly, I find it funny that she grew up in NCR territory but then thought they were horrible during her Mojave chapter. Also, sorry if there are any inconsistencies or incorrect facts!


	7. Chapter 7

The sun is setting over the 188 trading post.

She leans against the rails of the overpass drinking whiskey. It isn’t her usual brew, but that and a mouthful of Mentats might mean getting back to New Vegas quicker.

The Courier can see the Lucky 38 from here: Home, a beacon shining throughout the whole wasteland. She won’t be there tonight, but that’s okay. She reckons that Raul won’t miss her dragging him into fights too much.

The folks down here don’t bother her. Most just cast nervous looks at her, as if expecting trouble. But she doesn’t tangle with them. She’s merely waiting for the man behind the counter to finish repairing her machete.

(She should _really_ learn to do it for herself, but there are other skills she’s honing.)

There’s a young woman in clothes she doesn’t recognize from any faction she’s seen. The Courier doesn’t approach, although she can feel glances shot at her from time to time.

Finishing the contents of the bottle, the Courier leaves it on the ground by her feet. Looks below the overpass. Sees a boy sitting there, surrounded by his own kingdom of neatly-arranged junk.

She’s clambering down before she knows it, drawn out of the curiosity that one day might spell out her own death.

Approaches carefully. Children are so prone to fleeing at the last moment. But the boy watches her walk closer. Doesn’t get up from his makeshift bedding.

There’s a metal contraption on his head. She doesn’t recognize it at all.

The boy calls it his “medicine” when she prompts. He tells her that his thoughts are loud without it, that they tell him things that are to be. She tells him that’s pretty cool.

“I can take it off and tell you something,” he says.

“Something?” she questions, already settling herself down in front of him.

“About here, about everywhere.” A pause. “About _you_.”

She considers it. Gaze flicks towards the junk lined up behind him, thinking, thinking. Should she? Would it comfort her or merely add to her worries?

“Tell me about everywhere.”

The boy nods. Removes his headgear and takes a moment before speaking.

“Bull and Bear over the Dam, at each other's throats... but a light from Vegas? Ball spinning on the wheel, more than two at the table. Placing bets. All lose in different ways. A dam of corpses, towns of corpses, scattered across the sand. But whose in what shares? Even the dealer doesn't know. Forecast: A rain of blood will flood the desert and not purify it.”

The words send a chill up her spine. _Bull and bear over the Dam_. She knows what it means. She knows that- in the end- it’ll come down to her.

( _Her and the chip and all hands grabbing for it across the table_.)

For a moment, she says nothing. Her shoulders feel oddly heavy.

“Thank you,” she says, quietly, as she pays him.

He smiles at her. “Will you come again tomorrow?”

* * *

 

Of course she does.

Her machete is all shiny and devoid of dried blood, but she still sticks around. Tells the man behind the counter it’s nice out here.

The young woman in the strange robes stands in the background.

(The Courier watches her when her back is turned, semi-curious.)

She goes back down to the boy. The Forecaster, people at the trading post call him.

“Tell me about myself,” she asks.

He obliges, taking off his “medicine”. She figures that she’ll be broke before she can get back to the Strip.

“Your face does the thinking - two to the skull, yet one gets up. Odds are against you... but they're just numbers after the two-to-one. You're playing the hand you've been dealt, but you don't let it rest, you shuffle and stack, and a gamble... a gamble that may pay off? But how? Forecast: Rapidly changing conditions.”

She hears her plans in his words. Hears the wind whistling over that empty grave with her name on it. Hears it, then doesn’t _want_ to.

“Thank you, ma’am,” the boy says when she pays him.

Trudges back up to the trading post and spends the rest of the day mulling over his words.

 _A gamble that may pay off_.

That sounds mighty fine to her.

* * *

 

Today she _swears_ she’ll get back to the Lucky 38.

But she visits the Forecaster one last time. One last thought. _Here_.

“It hurts,” the Courier explains. “These thoughts of yours. But I need to hear it all.”

“Better safe than sorry,” he says, with all the innocence in the world.

She doesn’t ask him to talk immediately. Instead, she stares at her hands for a moment. Her shoulders keep getting heavier the more he tells her things.

“Here,” she says, and he blinks.

“Local, local, the here and now... little of interest.. things to buy, false hopes, and regrets watered down, washed down in dirty glasses. With regret comes a girl... smiling sad, brown robe, name Veronica, half here. Wraps her and her heart up like a pack, in the pack, a key, some say. Forecast: Cloudy, with a chance of friendship.”

 _Veronica_.

The name resounds, catches in her heart.

She looks over her shoulder, up at the overpass. The young woman in the robe stands there, looking down at them.

The Courier raises her hand, instinctively, a gesture which is returned. A smile blooms on Veronica’s face. From here, it is akin to seeing the Lucky 38 all lit up.

“Go to her,” the Forecaster urges.

She looks at him. “Thank you.”

* * *

 

“Well, thanks for taking a chance on a naive young girl from California with stars in her eyes and a pneumatic gauntlet on her hand,” Veronica says, as they get on the road and leave the 188 trading post behind them.

The Courier grins. “I need someone to take bullets for me while I run and hide.”

“Oh, shut up,” is the following remark, and Veronica nudges her.

All in all, it’s a lively walk back to New Vegas.


	8. Chapter 8

She finds it strange: To look upon a leader whose men she’s been cutting down, who is on his knees at her mercy. To look at him and decide to _spare_ him.

“Let him go, Joshua,” she says. It isn’t a plea. She doesn’t _plead_ to anyone, especially not the Burned Man.

Hopes she doesn’t need to cut _him_ down as well. She’s grown quite fond of him, the way you get attached to friends. _Are_ they even friends? It’s a question not for now.

Maybe not for _ever_.

Right now, the problem is with Salt-Upon-Wounds and his tribe.

Joshua stares at the tribe leader. He holds his gun like he’ll never let go.

“They won’t return to Zion anymore.”

The Courier watches her words sink in, reach through that fog of rage surrounding him.

She would _gladly_ butcher every single White Leg in her path. She would gladly let _Joshua_ do it. Her code of justice is strict: An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

But she understands this is different. If she lets Joshua do this, it’ll only be worst. Hatred breeds hatred in a never-ending cycle.

So she sheathes her machete, even if it cries out for more blood. Takes a cautious step towards the Burned Man.

“It’s over,” she says, quietly.

Joshua doesn’t look at her. She doesn’t look at Salt-Upon-Wounds.

For a moment, she thinks they’ll be forced to fight. She’ll have to slit open his throat and show everyone that he is but a man. Not a legend, just an ordinary man.

But he speaks, echoing her words. “It’s over.”

Salt-Upon-Wounds stares as she approaches, still not meeting his gaze.

“Get the fuck out of Zion,” she tells him. “If you know what’s good for you and your tribe.”

And- amazingly- they _do_.

* * *

 

She doesn’t leave immediately after taking care of Salt-Upon-Wounds.

Stays on, keeps giving little excuses _not_ to head on back to the Mojave: The feeling of serenity, the sight of rain, the clear rivers.

Can’t sleep. _Won’t_ sleep. Wants to savor every minute of being here, before she goes back. _If_ she ever goes back.

(Who is she trying to kid? The Mojave will always call her back, a mother searching for a lost child.)

Sometimes she falls asleep in front of the fire, trying to read Joshua’s book. Sometimes it starts to rain. Sometimes she wakes up somewhere nice and dry.

Sometimes she thinks that she can start over here. Her friends can take care of themselves.

But her own story is far from over: The Courier feels it in her bones.

And stubbornly ignores it.

* * *

 

“Come back to the Mojave with me,” she suggests, out of the blue.

Joshua doesn’t look up from his book. “I have no place there.”

So people _might_ want him dead. Like Caesar’s Legion. Perhaps they’ll want to prove their mettle against the Burned Man of legend, she doesn’t know. Perhaps Caesar will want to erase the past _himself_.

Boone won’t like it: Now that he knows she’s run around with the Legion, he’s stopped talking to her. Still follows when she asks, but… Less enthusiastic. Less trusting.

“It doesn’t have to be permanent. Just for a few weeks.”

She can imagine it already: The two of them, the open road, blood constantly in the air.

_All you need is to say ‘yes’._

“I’ll never ask you for anything again,” the Courier continues. “I won’t bother you, I won’t hang around, I won’t even come to Zion. Just take my hand.”

She doesn’t plead to anyone, especially not the Burned Man. She’s making a _deal_.

The man closes the book. Sets it aside and- only now- looks at her with those serious blue eyes.

Puts out her hand. Her fingers tremble, slightly. And when Joshua takes her hand, her heart jumps to her mouth, stays, a quivering lump.

“Courier,” he starts, still holding on. “You and I both know I cannot walk this road with you.”

Letting go of her hand, he picks up his book, holding her gaze just a fraction longer.

“I’m sorry.”

She understands. It hurts, but she understands. Yet understanding doesn’t keep her from sitting there, long after everyone has turned in for the night and the stars dance across the sky.

* * *

 

She packs up two days later, before anyone has risen. The sun hasn’t even touched the horizon. She figures it’s easier to start early before regret chases after her.

Slinging her pack over her shoulder, the Courier steps out into the open. Doesn’t look back. Just keeps on walking, putting distance between her and him and everything else.

_Think of the 38. Think of the people waiting there for you._

It’s that thought that keeps her going, all the way up to the passageway: The place where she first entered Zion.

And Joshua’s waiting for her.

He’s not going to follow her- the absence of a proper pack is her first indication- but he’s here for _something_.

“I came to give you a gift,” he says, and holds out his book to her. “I hope you don’t mind it being second-hand.”

The Courier takes it. Puts it in her pack without saying anything. Doesn’t _trust_ herself to say anything, but she speaks anyways.

“I guess this is goodbye.”

“You could always return with the caravans.”

“I know.”

But they both know she might never be back: Too many responsibilities, too many roads that still haven’t been walked. She’ll walk them all before her time is up.

Takes a deep breath. “Goodbye, Joshua.”

He nods, as she brushes past him. One hand touches his shoulder as she goes, starting towards the mouth of the passageway.

“Goodbye, Jupiter,” he calls, before she steps in.

It’s the first time he’s used her real name. A smile, like the sun breaking out behind clouds, spread across her face.

She doesn’t turn back, of course. Turning back means regret, means she’ll stay because she’s that weak.

But the Courier walks out of the history of Zion with a lighter step, if anything.


	9. Chapter 9

He is surveying the carnage of Nipton when he first sees her: A lone figure in a ragged duster, coming down the road. She walks as if nothing fazes her. Not the charred bodies lying everywhere, not the broken down houses, not even the winner of the town’s lottery.

And maybe nothing _does_.

She and the winner exchange a few a few words. Even from here can Vulpes hear the man’s incoherent rambling. The woman steps aside to let him pass, enjoy freedom. And then she keeps on walking.

The frumentarii with him do not sway from their positions, but he can feel their _readiness_ to spring upon her. They won’t, of course. Not without his sealing order.

Closer she comes, passing the crucified bandits. He thinks she might free them. Might end their suffering. But she doesn’t. Instead, the woman walks onwards, heading for them.

He’s _intrigued_. Not an ounce of fear seems to radiate from her: Either she’s under the influence of chems, has a staggeringly low amount of intelligence, or she really, _really_ doesn’t care.

Stops right in front of them. Brown eyes flick from his frumentarii and back to him.

“Nice day for a lottery, huh?” are her first words to him. Her voice is casually, although hinting at hidden steel.

“Nipton was a wicked place, debased and corrupt,” he answers. “It served all comers, so long as they paid. Profligate troops, Powder Gangers, men of the Legion such as myself - the people here didn't care. It was a town of whores. For a pittance, the town agreed to lead those it had sheltered into a trap. Only when I sprang it did they realize they were caught inside it, too."

“You must be awfully good at setting traps then.”

Challenges him with her gaze, one eyebrow raised as if to say: _Is that all you’ve got?_

No. Of course not. Vulpes has a million other tricks up his sleeve, and he isn’t one to share them with degenerates, of course.

They converse a little more: She has no idea what the Legion is, he is more than happy to fill in the blanks for her. Yet it seems a little strange. _Everyone_ in the Mojave knows the Bear and the Bull. Everyone _should_.

She’s attentive. Gaze never leaves his face, drinking in every word. There’s a grin growing on her face. Might be good, might be bad, but there’s nothing he cannot take charge of.

“Who _are_ you?” is her eventual question. “I mean, you got a nice hat, must mean _you’re_ in charge.”

He feels pride steal over him. “I am Vulpes Inculta, of Caesar's Legion. I serve my master as the greatest of his frumentarii. We frumentarii are soldiers of a different stripe, capable in battle, but skilled as infiltrators and agents as well.”

The woman glances at his frumentarii. Nods, almost approvingly.

“What can I do to get into Caesar’s good graces, hm?”

“Do whatever Caesar tells you to do. And whenever the opportunity presents, strike at the profligates. Pile body upon body.”

The answers come so easily to his tongue, years of training melded into _instinct_. He half expects her to take a step back, to bolt as fast as she can.

But she’s made it this far. She hasn’t been fazed by anything in Nipton. To Vulpes, it’s either sheer bravery or utter stupidity.

Instead, she taps two fingers to her forehead in some sort of salute. His gaze catches on a scar on her forehead, a cobweb that spreads out.

“I’ll do just that,” she tells him. “Just you wait and see.”

He makes a noise of amusement as she pushes past him, into the building. The door swings shut with a bang. Even if she decides to deal with said profligates, she’s to deal with the Legion hounds within.

“Come,” he tells the frumentarii- There’s no point in waiting for the woman to come out. “Our task is finished.”

Vulpes has the faint suspicion that _her_ task, however, is just beginning.

* * *

 

Days pass, weeks pass, months pass.

He hears of the woman’s progress through word of mouth and reports sent in from other camps: She’s murdered the leaders of Forlorn Hope, assisted Silus in escaping, destroyed the NCR monorail.

The fact that the NCR still- _barely_ \- respects her in a feat itself.

He’s pored over these reports again and again. Tries to find her name, tries to figure out why a _degenerate_ of all people wants to aid the Legion. And eventually pins it down to the simple reason that some are born to serve.

(Sometimes he dreams of the fire in her eyes and knows that his theory is incorrect.)

They meet again, regardless: Midnight, right in front of the Tops, the place awash with neon lights and pilgrims from far-off towns.

“You’re the Courier.” It’s a statement, and although he doesn’t sound particularly impressed, he _is_.

Her eyes are wild, searching his face. He notes her attire- Rumpled, crooked, like she’s just gotten out of bed with something she _shouldn’t_ have slept with in the first place. There’s a machete on her hip, familiar although the scratches are new.

“Can we talk later?” she asks, moving past him, onto the street. “I gotta look for that son of a-“

“He’s at the Fort, along with your precious chip.”

Vulpes watches her stiffen, turn on her heel to face him. Her brows are furrowed.

And then she’s inches from his face. The Courier’s breath smells sweet, like she’s been drinking Sunset Sarsaparilla. Probably _has_ been- There’s not much else to drink in this wasteland.

“Take me there. I don’t care _how_ , fucking take me there.”

“ _I_ cannot take you there,” he tells her. Hands reach into his pocket, curl around the Mark. “But this will be your passage. Go to Cottonwood Cove, show them this, and be on your way. Caesar wishes to meet you face-to-face.”

Holds out the Mark of Caesar to her, and she takes it. There’s a storm gathering behind those eyes, something dark and vindictive. Vulpes wonders what will happen once she reaches the Fort.

He’ll be there to find out, naturally. But whether she’ll be smart enough to walk in calmly or prepare a full-on assault is beyond him.

“Cottonwood Cove,” he repeats, for good measure.

Leaves her standing there, under the night sky and with a white-knuckle grip on the Mark. But not before he gives her what he assumes is a compliment.

“You’ve dealt many well-placed blows to the profligates. A pity perhaps, that you’re a woman. You could’ve made a very fine frumentarii.”

Her sudden, wild laughter echoes in his ears, even long after he’s left New Vegas.


End file.
